The jpeg
by Emma Lynch
Summary: It was a photograph...the photograph's subject lying across the very bed he sat upon glowed hot in his hand, as if come to life. The person had been caught wrestling out of a flurry of bedclothes, arms blurred, eyes crinkled in amusement and pale skin lit by the close proximity of a bleaching flash... John finds something on Sherlock's phone is isn't quite able to explain...
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

 **RINGING**

It was torturous.

Like a dripping tap, amalgam on silver foil, nails on a blackboard, static from an untuned radio - and John had had enough.

" _Sherlock_! For Christ's sake, answer your _sodding phone_!"

John Watson's flatmate barely acknowledged his existence when the curse of his black moods descended, so the flurry of a pile of grass-stained(?) newspapers and slightly theatrical hand gesture was the only indication Sherlock had even heard him.

And the phone remained unanswered.

During these irksome periods of a case, where the answer was dangling just out of reach like the trials of Tantalus, regular mealtimes were as likely as unicorn dressage, yet John always attempted at some kind of rudimentary semblance of nutrition; was he not a medical man after all? Wasn't nutrition the absolute in fuelling the brain, engendering the genius that was his friend's… _bread and butter?_

"Not even a packet of crisps?"

Hands on hips, barefoot atop the coffee table, dressing gown awry and hair even more so, Sherlock surveyed the paper, string and drawing pin version of his mind palace, arranged so carefully on the wall opposite, and still shook his head.

"Slows… me… _down_ ," he bites, through gritted teeth and knotted jaw, eyes slitted and brow drawn down, facing off Tantalus.

"So _close_ ," he adds in a whisper of frustration, throwing an unpredictable dart across the room a fortuitous second before Mrs Hudson enters with a tray of tea and, surprisingly, a hammer.

John is glad of the distraction, takes his tea and smirks. "Out of biscuits then?" he quips, as Sherlock leaps from the table and the all too familiar jarring mobile breaks through the fretful restlessness that has curled its way about the confines of the room.

"No, dear," she returns, face deadpan and turning on her heel as she places the hammer on the recently vacated coffee table. "I just thought it might come in useful if he continues to ignore that blasted thing!"

Unfortunately, he does.

 **~x~**

Naturally, it was Mycroft's fault.

And Lestrade's.

The former had been responsible for recommending Sherlock for a case which took him into the deepest, darkest country lanes of East Anglia, away from 4G, newspapers and several of his on-going cases which were coming to critical conclusions. What had resulted in keeping him from London and his own central business district had ultimately then proved to be a fruitless, dead-end of a case ( _"barely a two!"_ ) which was topped off by a stranding rail strike and the discovery that big brother was using him to pay back 'a favour'. Thus, Mycroft was being (even more) vigorously ignored until Sherlock's ire had fizzled out a little. Gregory Lestrade had done nothing more than arrive at the wrong time with the wrong kind of sympathy for the man who was the British Government (ie: any) and was therefore being ascribed a similar fate.

Hence the phone and its incessant cry for attention, which Sherlock would not mute, since his text alerts were of _"vital importance"_ to the problematic little conundrum currently inhabiting their sitting room wall.

"Mycroft loves to phone me," he had observed, mainlining coffee and nicotine, squinting through acrid smoke at the unforthcoming montage being offered by the wall, "since he knows I detest it."

"And now we can all share in the fun," returns John Watson, eyeing up the hammer as another, grating, shrill tone shatters the relative silence. "Brilliant."

 **~x~**

"You're going to have to pack it in. He's not gonna crack, Mycroft."

In desperation, John lies in conciliatory mode across his bed upstairs, but it appears the shrill tones can be heard through walls and ceilings.

"I feel differently, John," comes the measured yet smug reply, "but of course, you are entitled to your opinion."

"I have a hammer, Mycroft, and I have already had more than one opportunity to use it."

"My brother," purrs a reply laced in honey and kerosene, "has more than one phone."

"John, I'm sorry, but I've got the Commissioner breathing down my neck - I need Sherlock to shed some light on this one." Greg is sympathetic, but John is now hearing the ringtone in his dreams.

"Come and get him then! There was a time your blues and twos were spotted more frequently down Baker Street than a cab! Just stop calling him on that bloody thing for a few days."

"Yeah, not allowed to do that fake drugs bust/police escort thing any more - budget cuts and the like. Can you just have a word…?"

John presses the _End Call_ , regretful for the loss of a handset, curly wire and a cradle to crash them into.

 **~x~**

 **II.**

 **FINDING**

It wasn't until Thursday that John accidentally discovered, via Eamon Holmes (no relation) on _This Morning_ , that ring tones could be muted with embarrassing ease, without affecting the text alert. He must watch daytime telly more often it would seem, since being almost forty had him relegated to being a virtual Luddite these days. It was a good job that nice Mary from the main office at the surgery was on hand to help when his computer (i.e. him) hit a glitch; she seemed very competent as well as nice. He smiled briefly, but there was vital work to do.

The wall case had reached critical mass the night before and Sherlock had given Lestrade the coordinates of the forgers with a mixture of triumph and disdain, content in the knowledge he had bested Scotland Yard and the puzzle had played out as he had deduced it would. The Clancy family were overjoyed and sent a crate of Bollinger to the Yard, eliciting the ghost of a smile from Sherlock; it seemed he was thawing towards Lestrade, even if his brother was still relegated to the icy tundra for the time being. All this then, resulted in a very fortuitous situation for John Watson, since a triumphant detective was very nearly always an exhausted detective and thus, he was greeted by a tangle of arms, legs and red dressing gown sprawled across the sofa, deep in the unconsciousness of an exhausted body. Nothing was going to wake Sherlock for hours, so what better time than now to utilise Eamon's well-timed advice? It was true that Lestrade was going to leave them in peace for at least a day or two, but Mycroft's propensity for annoyance knew no bounds.

As was the rule of thumb in these matters, when a despised irritant is sought out rather than avoided, it proves impossible to find.

Pockets, drawers, cupboards and every visible surface were painstakingly investigated and delicately ransacked to find Sherlock's phone and disable it. With one eye on the time and the other on a sleeping detective, John knew all the truisms about more haste resulting in less speed, but the clock was ticking and although Sherlock's breathing was still regular, it was lighter and levelling out towards more shallow sleep. Jesus, the man had sonar rather than ears most of the time which made subterfuge nigh on impossible in dealings with him.

Magazines, newspapers, peevishly discarded journals were all lifted from their varied resting places; sofas, chairs and even kitchen cabinets were searched beneath (although John was not always prepared for the extra little delights he discovered during his quest - the amputated mouse tails had been… _unexpected_ ). Then, thirty minutes in, John paused in his frantic search mode and stared down at the man who lay before him, dreaming the dreams of the smug and the vindicated.

 _What_ , his mind coaxed out into a more coherent and logical format, _if it's actually still in his pocket?_

But no. Even Sherlock, despite his inhuman tolerance of discomfort in order to prove a point, would not wish the irritant to be quite so close; it would make more sense for him to have put it out of sight and (almost) out of earshot -

 _Bedside drawer._

Buoyed up by certainty, John took the four paces across the room it took to enter Sherlock's bedroom and gingerly closed the door behind him, all the better for a further barricade in his espionage. In shocking contrast to their shared living quarters, it was an immaculate (if somewhat spartan) space, an observation eliciting the rather childish resentment rising in the breast of John Watson. Picture frames straight and dust-free, surfaces clear of clutter and no clothing, toiletries or nicknacks on public view. John so rarely came in here, he turned in his speculation, feeling the slight tug of inappropriate intrusion into his flatmate's privacy, but clearly not enough to dissuade his gentle tug on the drawer handle -

And there it was.

An expensive Nokia; John was glad he hadn't resorted to quietening it with Mrs Hudson's hammer, momentarily anticipating the password hurdle before he realised Sherlock was too impatient for passwords.

 _Settings_ … he should try and recall what Eamonn had said with a little more clarity as his thumb swiped across the offensive instrument rapidly, one ear to the living room and one eye -

John Watson froze, his heart stilled, blood surging in his ears, his thumb poised atop the screen that was illuminating a face halted in shock.

It was a photograph. It had been recently viewed and therefore not yet hidden away in Sherlock's photo gallery, and the photograph's subject lying across the very bed he sat upon glowed hot in his hand, as if come to life. The person had been caught wrestling out of a flurry of bedclothes, arms blurred, eyes crinkled in amusement and pale skin lit by the close proximity of a bleaching flash. John had to remind himself to breathe as he stared. It was the smile; the genuine, trusting, openness that radiated humour, playfulness and utter joy at being photographed; it was a smile he had never seen before on this face of this person, lying half-naked, half sheet-wrapped as he tried to retrieve the phone from the person taking the picture.

It was the face of his friend, his flatmate, the man he'd imagined he knew better than all others, now wearing the mask of someone he'd never met.

And if Sherlock Holmes was the subject of that picture, the question now blazing through his brain (hands hastily restoring the Nokia to the drawer as if it had burst into flames into his palm) begged to be answered:

Who, in God's name, was the photographer?

 **~x~**


	2. Chapter 2

**III.**

 **DEDUCING**

"John, stop it."

The chide was mild and further mollified by being spoken through a bite of toast and marmalade.

"Huh?" Truth be told, he hadn't slept much that night and was having a little difficulty looking his flatmate in the eye. "Stop what?"

"Thinking. I can virtually hear the cogs turning and it's ruining my breakfast. Keep the noise down in there, or tell me what it is that bothers you."

 _Not a chance in hell,_ thinks John, _at least not until I've launched my own investigation._

His head ached and he rubbed his temples, his cheeks, his eyes, almost to rid them of the image now seared into the very fabric of his brain.

"Mmm...fine. Jus' din't sleep much. Tossing and turning." _Wrapped up in my own thoughts and sheets, adds his beleaguered brain, a little bit like you the other night._

The other night? If only there had been time to see a date stamp or check the time on the picture. He had noticed the bedside light had been switched on and the room was in semi-darkness, so as it was summer, it must have been after nine p.m.

Or maybe they just drew the curtains? Or maybe it was taken ages ago? No. A white flower from the peace lily Sherlock kept beside his bed was in clear view; Sherlock usually killed house plants in less than a week and this one (gift from Mrs Hudson after she forgave his latest atrocity in the fridge) was still hale and hearty. So… in the last few days? Maybe?

God, he was crap at this, and his pessimism was only made worse by the fact that the person who was _best_ at this was the one person he wouldn't be asking. At least not until he absolutely had to.

John watched Sherlock carefully from beneath (what he hoped were) disinterestedly tired eyes, trying to juxtapose that image of that jpeg with his current view.

A corner of toast poking out from the corner of his mouth; mercurial eyes scanning line after line of newsprint, filtering nuggets of interest like a blue whale filters krill, Sherlock looked animated, fairly cheerful, well rested and unusually good humoured ( _so he bloody well should be_ mused John, reminiscing over " _I'm married to my work"_ with the jealous irony of the reluctantly celibate), even grinning every now and then as he perused Lestrade's summation of the Clary forgery case to the London Evening News.

"' _All evidence pointed towards Jeremy Elofssen and his cousins being present at the Clary mansion,' commented Inspector Lestrade knowledgeably as he sat flanked by his able staff, including Sergeants Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. 'Mainly down to the clay loam soil in the cleats of his boots which could only have been found in the area in question.'"_

Sherlock read the report out loud, gleeful and mocking from the safety of his anonymity. He didn't really need public plaudits, contemplated John, so long as those who mattered were impressed. The question remained then - who, besides himself, were the people who mattered? Who was the one person who mattered enough to elicit that secret smile?

Jesus, he was playing with fire here, but he was going to bloody well find out.

 **~x~**

 **IV.**

 **INVESTIGATING**

Not really your area?

John's finger rested on the space bar as he surveyed his latest _oeuvre_ \- one he imagined would never make it onto his famous blog, but carried a little scientific enquiry within its composition all the same.

A list. _His_ list. The list of possibilities he couldn't quite bring himself to entitle, since nothing he could think of as a title made any kind of sense in his brain.

Nine. Nine possibilities… fingers flew over the keyboard in a sudden flurry of activity as another thought struck him. _Ten_. Ten possibilities; something he never imagined could have happened when he had first entered into the madness of this insane friendship which had rapidly become the best thing in his life. Sherlock Holmes might, potentially (probably), have shared a bed (and other, hardly imaginable yet intimate activities) with another person, and that person could be on _this list_. (John had, momentarily, toyed with the 'selfie' notion, but remembered that Sherlock had both hands in view and, more importantly - _that bloody smile_. That smile was inspired by genuine affection, by another, living soul. Even by such an actor as Sherlock, that reaction could not have been faked for the camera.

John felt hairs prickle at the back of his neck as the wind rattled the door downstairs. If Sherlock returned from the Morgue and witnessed John's swift shutting of the laptop and utterly predictable babbling to cover the guilt of this, quite unacceptable, probing into his private life, the gig would be up quicker than you could say _"isn't it obvious?"_ As he climbed the stairs to his room, John's hammering heart began to quieten and he lay across his bed, scrolling through and lost in thought.

 _1\. Janine Hawkins:_

Pros: Previous relationship (engagement); lived together (briefly); knows him, yet still likes him (a real plus); look good together; both like dancing.

Cons: Relationship completely fake on his part; betrayal of trust; despite revenge kiss and tells, there was absolutely no sexual intimacy, and that photo was all about intimacy. In addition, a recent Google search featured a _Hello!_ magazine article about happily married and heavily pregnant Janine Moran (nee Hawkins) nesting in her beautiful five bedroomed Sussex Downs cottage.

So, not Janine then.

2\. _Irene Adler:_

Pros: The Woman. Huge attraction (both, this time)- physical and mental; understood each other and gave their trust; intellectually similar; looked _really_ good together; sexually experienced (her) which might come in useful; the text alert.

Cons: Massive slap-in-the-face betrayal and humiliation on both sides; ignored her texts, repeatedly; fiercely independent and selfish (both); gay (her/possibly both); dead (her).

Not Irene either, since there was enough supernatural, other-worldliness about this entire thing- ghosts need not apply.

John sighed. Progress was slow and he was beginning to hate himself just a little bit. But, curiosity does but make arseholes of us all, and with a cleansing breath, he carried on.

3\. _Sally Donovan_ :

Pros: Both parties attractive and angry for much of the time; previous relationship volatile which, by the law of all romcoms, sexual attraction is a dead cert; common ground - crimes and cases (nice post-coital chit-chat about unsolved murders etc.); possible alternative connotation of the term 'freak'.

Cons: Her guilt over fake suicide never quite addressed; her promotion to detective inspector out in some remote part of Somerset; her wife, Kitty (another hit for _Hello!_ magazine).

John closed the lid and rubbed his temples again. Eight remaining. He could do a lot with eight.

 **~x~**

"I said, there's been another parcel, for you."

John yelled, hating the breathlessness in his voice (bloody useless gym membership - only helpful if you actually go to the gym) as he attempted to level with Sherlock who was tear-arsing up the stairs to the labs (lifts too slow - who had the time - oh, around thirty seconds - to wait for one to arrive?).

"From the Clancy's? Yes, I know. Another trinket to _thank me_ … a ca-me-o." He enunciated as if the word repelled him.

"Which irritates you because - ?"

"Lestrade was expressly asked not to let them know of my involvement, but it seemed the Bollinger loosened his tongue that little too much, and here we are: knee deep in cufflinks, watch fobs and other extraneous, gentrified paraphernalia!"

How Sherlock could enunciate so many syllables without panting was somewhat irksome, but John battled on.

"You haven't even opened half of them. And a 'thank you' might be nice."

They came to a (merciful) halt at the door of floor six and Sherlock stood as John, hot and sweaty, but no less well brought up, held open the stairwell door for him.

"Thank you," he smiled briefly, striding in like he owned the place, coat billowing behind him.

 **~x~**

"He was no gardener."

Sherlock and his lens are leaning as far across the body as was possible without touching it or the mortuary slab beneath it. Molly Hooper leans back against the counter of her laboratory, arms folded, watching him. She is smiling.

"So, tell us why not."

Her words edge between tease and curiosity (indulgent almost). She isn't the startled ingenue of six years previously; she's top of her game and wears a quiet confidence like a shimmering shroud. His posture stiffens slightly, but he continues.

"Manicured hands - relatively unusual in males; no callouses from use of gardening tools and a failed (double stitches in the knee illustrate a second) arthroscopy would indicate a reluctance..." he turns and faces his audience of two. "... to kneel down."

"So," interjects John, casting a medical eye over the notes, the corpse and mentally concurring with the written down verdict of myocardial infarction. "So why was Mr Montgomery found, face down in his herbaceous border with a trowel and a gardening book at his side? He'd just picked a bunch of purple flowers to take in for his wife. To me, this shows pride in his hobby and a desire to please his nearest and dearest, knee injury or not."

Sherlock is nodding, which John has found to be less encouraging than the casual observer might deduce. It usually preceded a singularly succinct annihilation of John's theory in as an acerbic/patronising a manner as possible.

"Excellent," begins Sherlock, "but utterly erroneous."

Here we go.

"According to the Parish Magazine which is conveniently on line these days, Mr Montgomery's wife has won awards for her floral offerings at the village fete ten years in succession. Bertram Thorpe, local councillor, had written lyrically of her long-stemmed Ena Harkness roses and cerulean blue lisianthus."

John notes Molly is now sitting on her bench top, swinging her legs, possibly enjoying the freedom her unaccustomed skirt is offering her (new discovery: Molly Hooper has rather shapely ankles) and watching his flatmate as he circles the corpse slowly in rather a vulpine manner, concluding:

"This man did suffer a heart attack, but it was an event induced by several months' exposure to the plant he had picked in an attempt to identify its properties (hence the gardening manual he had with him). It emerges that Mr Montgomery, as a result from a childhood infection, had a weakened heart valve, made all the more fatal by a tincture of Monkshood in his cornflakes for twelve weeks."

"Monkshood? That was the purple plant?"

"Also known as Aconite or, more poetically, Wolfsbane. It can be responsible for stomach upsets, vomiting and slowing of the heartbeat to a fatal level, and it leaves little trace. Mr Montgomery suspected his wife of poisoning him and went into the garden to verify his suspicions. Unfortunately, he was a little too late. Mrs Montgomery can probably be found tending to her herbaceous borders as we speak, secure in her alibi of myocardial infarction and thoroughly comforted by Mr Thorpe as he completes his latest update to the parish website."

"An affaire du coeur!" breathes Molly Hooper, now professionally donning gloves, preparing for further investigation of her cuckolded corpse.

Sherlock Holmes is nodding once more as he dons his own leather gloves in preparation to leave.

"Aren't they always." he murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

**V.**

 **CONTEMPLATING**

A busy few weeks of surgeries and distinct observation of _the glad-eye_ being offered by Miss Mary Morstan were seemingly insufficient in their distractive powers to allow John Watson to forget The List.

Sherlock's cases had him out of 221B at the oddest hours of the day and the night, and John had given up anticipating the key in the lock or the footstep on the stair. John himself had returned to Baker Street with a heightened degree of scrutiny, almost sneaking into his own home in the hope of catching… well, he wasn't proud of _that_ notion, but it was there nonetheless.

One rainy Thursday, he came home to the stillness of a vacant flat and even shouted down to Mrs Hudson to join him for a glass of wine if she felt so inclined; he felt fairly certain he could smell her legendary stilton and black pepper cheese straws as he took to the stairs, and she never came up them empty handed.

In the meantime, it was back to his obsession _du jour_.

John settled himself in Sherlock's chair, his stockinged feet aloft on the pouffe and laptop balanced precariously. He felt certain Sherlock wouldn't (as current cases were indicating) be back that night.

So.

4\. Gregory Lestrade:

Pros: Past association and genuine respect (begrudging on one side, but there nevertheless); a fatherly, protective aspect vs unruly, wayward risk-taker (could work?); shared interests in crime-solving; genuine (if begrudging) fondness for each other.

Cons: steadfast heterosexuality (on one side at least) and seemingly pointless pursual of reluctant ex-wife; class differences could prove problematical; Sherlock's horror of 'a pint down the pub' under absolutely any circumstance, ditto.

Interesting idea, but no.

5\. Anthea:

Pros: no need for introductions (insider information); both fond of secrecy, seductive glances and hidden meanings; both with excellent dress sense; both love to text; would piss off Mycroft (major plus point on every level).

Cons: cool off-handedness could not possibly engender a smile such as seen on the jpeg; possibly knows too much about him for any kind of relationship development.

Back to the drawing board then. John slaps down the lid of the laptop rather peevishly, pushing it to one side. Luckily, a familiar "coo-ee!" on the stair (accompanied by the smell of buttery, cheesy pastry) throws him a life-raft of gossip laden distraction and comfort food in the mauve draped form of his patient (and rather kindly) landlady.

"You brought the cheese straws."

"As if I'd turn up empty handed, John Watson, and well you know it!"

 **~x~**

"She seems nice. You should ask her out."

Barely five minutes and only one straw in, and he's already blindsided by a woman who hadn't been Sherlock's landlady for years without learning a trick or two.

"Ask - who? What?"

"Mentionitis."

John's brain bubbled in confusion. As if he didn't have enough of this with the other person he lived with.

"Please, Mrs Hudson, I'm not quite sure what you're - "

"The girl, at the surgery. I've noticed. It's ' _Mary this'_ and ' _Mary that_ ' - you mention her name at every chance you get. You have mentionitis; it's quite normal dear. I even did it with Mr Hudson."

"Who's first name is?"

"Well, that's not important to you, now is it dear?"

Truth be told, but Mary Morstan had a smile he couldn't quite forget about. Her eyes, the deepest delphinium of blues, looked at him beyond who he was; they looked inside of him, and he found he quite liked it.

"I might." He's blushing - ridiculous. "I might." John twisted a cheese straw between his fingers as he contemplated the risks lovers took in their day to day dealings. He shook himself suddenly though. Mr Hudson was a long time gone and how many people asked after you when you were old?

"I'm sorry we - me and Sherlock - we are a bit… _rubbish_ when it comes to being tenants." John crunched into his straw. It was sublime. The glug of the bottle and the crisp, apple tinted bite of a really good Chardonnay made him realise we are all mouldable, we are all fluid.

She's giggling slightly and he pours her another glass.

"No! No, if you think that, John Watson. I wouldn't want tenants who weren't you two, even after the explosions, unconscious clients, police raids…"

"Happy times."

"Near death experiences… all part of the spice of life. All part of living with Sherlock."

John nodded. There was little else to do.

"Molly and I always joke about the way Baker Street is a facade for normality. She often says people check the postcode and buy into the respectability. Respectable? Sherlock? He does what he wants, when he wants to do it!"

John leans across to fill her glass. He is tired (and a little tipsy) but he can't ignore the nagging tug lurking deep within his subconscious.

"Molly? You've been over to the morgue?"

"Don't be silly dear; I've seen enough corpses for one lifetime, thank you. No, I meant here, obviously."

Obviously.

Pastries eaten, crumbs brushed away, violet-scented hugs and promises to ' _keep dead things away from the food_ ' and John feels the evening to have been a heartfelt one.

"You're a lot more than a landlady," he says, and he means it.

Mrs Hudson totters down the seventeen stairs as he watches fondly. He watches and he dampens down the niggle. _Always? Often?_ What goes on in Baker Street when its paying guests are absent? What kind of traffic comes its way? Who is witness to its comings and goings?

 _Always. Often._

John closes the door.

 **~x~**

 **VI.**

 **EXTRAPOLATING**

It was a slow day at the surgery, with an unusual percentage of cancellations (Christmas was a-coming and shoppers had no time to get ill) so, naturally, an obsessive G.P.'s mind may turn to his Google Drive.

He sighed and fidgeted in his chair slightly for this one, but as a famous know-it-all once said, _once you have eliminated the impossible…_

 _6\. Philip Anderson:_

 _PROS: in manner of No. 3 (Sally Donovan), too much antipathy might indicate something deeper... hate and love are not so very far apart after all; both shy away from the dreaded curse of indifference. Both men shared interests in crime and forensics, and Anderson very definitely bordered on obsessive-compulsive with his Baker St. Irregulars insanity whilst Sherlock was dead; hero worship? A crazy kind of love?_

 _CONS: Just about every glance and syllable Sherlock had offered to Anderson in John's presence had indicated nothing more than disdainful disgust. The end._

Feeling a little queasy, he moved onto the next inhabitant of the strangest list seen since Hannibal Lecter went out shopping for dinner.

 _7\. Kitty Reilly:_

 _PROS: Possible crush hidden behind slanderous and suicide-inducing expose? Should be considered...(Sherlock never spoke of their discussion in the gentlemen's lavatory at the Old Bailey); huge doses of guilt from same event might have lead further; close proximity to Moriarty might prove interesting fodder for pillow talk._

 _CONS: See No. 3 also. Now married to Sally Donovan and living in remote Sussex village (very happily if Hello! is to be believed)._

"That's not Mr Rucastle's prescription, Dr Watson."

So involved is he, John hadn't heard Mary Morstan enter the room and slide right up beside him, a cup of tea in one hand, mince pie in the other and glittering indigo eyes skittering all over his Google Docs screen.

"Hell, Mary!" Hurriedly, he shrinks the screen. "I neither heard you knock, nor come in. You must be some kind of bloody ninja!" Maybe an over-reaction, but this list had his spring tightly wound.

She grins, eyes everywhere, drinking him in as he sips shakily at his tea.

"I never knock unless I _absolutely_ have to. It's much more interesting that way."

Later that evening, safely ensconced in his draughty little bedroom and in the knowledge Sherlock was out (again):

 _8\. Mary Morstan:_

 _PROS: quick, smart, intuitive and three steps ahead of everyone else, just like Sherlock; would look (utterly unfairly) good together; interest in me to get closer to him? (if took the picture, seems pretty close already tbh); asks about him a fair bit; suspect he'd have a lot of time for her; both seem to be risk-takers._

 _CONS: I like her._

He sits back against the pine headboard and sighs. John decides he doesn't like the list anymore and is almost overjoyed to hear Mrs Hudson's dulcet tones shriek like hungry seagulls up two flights of stairs:

"John! Can you come down!"

"What is it? A client?"

He hears impatient footsteps enter the room below, with an additional tap as syncopation.

Mycroft.

"Sherlock's out!" He yells down, feeling lazy and slightly mutinous after a crappy kind of day.

"I know," comes a measured tone, far too genteel to be described as a yell. "You'll do."

 **~x~**

Mycroft Holmes is business-like, brisk and without rancour and John finds himself resenting this state of affairs.

"... so if these samples could be allowed a little reconnaissance from my brother…"

"Anyone would think you had no one else to dip your litmus paper…"

"Less than likely, but Sherlock does enjoy a little sniff of the unusual…"

"Surely, the Home Office budget could stretch to non-family members devising a sufficiently accurate analysis?"

Mycroft Holmes (not offered a welcome, beverage nor encouragement on any level) seems remarkably unperturbed by such social inadequacies.

"Molly seemed unconcerned regarding the samples. I would, of course Doctor, adopt a little equivocation should she have been overwhelmed with work or... other such demands upon her time."

John is already moving towards the door. He has quite the headache.

"... he's _never_ in, has a case list as long as your budget cuts, and prefers puzzles to spreadsheets, so - " He holds open the door.

"Unlikely, Mycroft."

Mycroft has been absent from his home for little more than forty-five minutes before John begins (finally) to narrow it down.


	4. Chapter 4

**VII.**

 **Prevaricating**

Molly Hooper is not the only person able to stitch an eyebrow back to its original situation, but she happens to be in the right place at the right time for this little piece of … fieldwork.

" _Hold still- "_

" _Harridan."_

" _Idiot."_

John offers a suture in lieu of his friend's bleeding head, but it appears his concerns are redundant.

The chase had been savage, bordering on the very limits of both John's athletic and prophetic abilities.

"Sherlock!" (ridiculous panting, ridiculous. Quite frankly, Richard at _GymSync_ should be feeling pretty ashamed of himself right now) "Sherlock, stop!"

"What?"

(More panting; more running.)

Then, rounding a corner into bright, blinding light and the sickening crack of wood against bone, sudden darkness, then feet (two sets now) racing away down a side alley as Dr John H Watson kneels down to tend to his friend, crumpled at his feet, blood seeping through his fingers as he holds his skull.

"He… he had an… accomplice! Why didn't I ... realise the brother ... would come right in the end."

Doctor's hands, probing, feeling, assessing.

"Shut up, before you pass out," he grits out, pulling out his phone.

Back in Bart's, Sherlock sits, swinging long legs across as he sits high on the bench (where are all the bloody chairs in this place?), as carefree as a man in possession of a shot of novocaine about the temples can be.

"Head. _Still_."

She stands, bright-haired and tiny, but towering in her command in the place that is her battlefield.

( _goodness, was she wearing something around her neck?_ )

"It was an unforeseen occurrence. I had not allowed for the bond of brotherhood to be so spontaneously resurrected -"

( _She never wore jewellery, not for work_ )

Molly stops dabbing at the remaining blood for a second and Sherlock stops mid-sentence (a rare enough circumstance at any time) as they look at each other. John fancies he can hear the ticking of the clock and the neon fizzing in the tubes above.

"Missed your eye by millimetres." Her words are powerful, but their delivery softened. ( _It was a necklace… a brooch, on a ribbon_ ) "You may have had a little more than concussion to deal with, Sherlock."

The King of the Last Word does not reply, but looks down - away from the exhortation in her dark eyes.

"I know," he whispers quietly, all cocky exuberance dissipated, then:

"I am sorry, Molly Hooper," he says.

 **~x~**

By the following Tuesday, when Sherlock has been out for most of the evening, John sits ready for him as the key catches in the lock downstairs. Sherlock takes his sweet time removing shoes, socks, jackets; emptying pockets and pottering around the cigarette slipper (tragically empty), seemingly unnoticing of his flatmate's scrutiny, until:

"For goodness sake John, let's have it! You are virtually trembling with conjecture." Sherlock stands at the kitchen bench, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for the nicotine patch, one eyebrow raised whilst the other remained covered by a (slightly bloodstained) wound dressing (although John supposed that one to be raised also).

"Can I ask a stupid question?"

Sherlock smirks, ripping open the packet as he answers:

"Better than anyone I know." But there is little more than fondness in his tone, and John smiles back before plunging in.

"I was just wondering how the case was going."

Sherlock is casual as he applies the patch and reaches for the hidden packet of Bensons from the John's _no-longer-secret_ hiding place.

"Which one?"

"The one that's been taking all your evenings up over the past few weeks. I assumed it was a case, unless you've taken up a night class down at the Arts Centre on Marylebone Avenue?"

Still, his flatmate is not taking his chair, but instead, rifling through numerous cupboards and cutlery drawers. It doesn't take a detective to know _this_ detective is wishing to avoid eye contact of any kind. His head was now in the fridge (better his than Mr. Shaw's from all those years ago) but both of them knew there was little in the way of foodstuffs in there, even if Sherlock had felt inclined to rustle up a snack (which he never did).

"Criminals are as unpredictable as colds in the head, John." More attention now given to the freezer (also empty apart from a bag of frozen locusts and a battered bag of quorn, dated July 2010). "You never know when you're going to catch one. I need to be out and about when the need arises."

"Without my help, it would seem."

"Sometimes it is best to travel light."

"I see."

A few moments pass while Sherlock boils a kettle for a cup of tea he will never drink, and is peering at a pile of newspapers, teetering precariously on top of several cardboard boxes. For some reason, John reflected, the flat always looked as if someone was in the process of moving in, rather than somewhere they'd lived for almost eight years.

"Looking for something?" He continues, relentless yet prepared, soldier that he was.

"Mmmm."

"Your scarf? Seen it in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Maybe your penknife? Stuck beneath the dining table for reasons I don't even want to be told about."

"Mmm?"

"If it's Lestrade's notebook, I saw that under the sofa (and you really should give it back) - "

Sherlock has quieted in his faux-searching, as if he knows what's coming.

"Or maybe," murmurs John Watson, sitting up in his chair and finding his flatmate's eyeline at last he holds up a smooth, expensive-looking Nokia.

"...maybe it's your phone," he says.

 **~x~**


	5. Chapter 5

**~x~**

 **VIII.**

 **Questioning**

Indigo, denim, navy. All the blues sparkled in the eyes of Mary Morstan as she sat across from him, deep within the very beautiful pistachio-walled and golden-chaired ambience of _La Patisserie Valerie,_ occupying a tiny yet up-and-coming corner of Brixton. It had taken weeks of deliberating and hours of mental agitation (alongside many visualisations of possible scenarios) before John Watson found himself in the highly anticipated position now occupying his senses. Beside the eyes, her laugh was rich and intoxicating and her voice couldn't help seducing him at every syllable. He maybe should calm down a bit and drink his tea. This kind of obsession could never end well, and he wanted to emerge with some shred of dignity intact when she inevitably dumped him in a few weeks time.

"It's OK John," she leans forward, a whisper of jasmine scented air luring him further. "I'm not going anywhere. I like you."

His eye widen, realising.

"You must meet my flatmate at some point," he murmurs. "I think you'd get on."

 _ **~x~**_

He couldn't risk getting cream across his face on a first date, but Mary had no such qualms and was licking the _creme anglaise_ from her index finger as she said:

"You must tell me, how are you doing with that flatmate… and your _list_?"

He reddened. Not cool. But Mary Morstan couldn't be more interested, so he got over himself and decided he would confide after all.

He blamed the delphinium blue that sparkled, just for him.

 **~x~**

Sherlock had sat across from him, calmly holding his phone and meeting John's eye at last.

"Obviously, you have seen the jpeg. You have been… _speculating._ "

 _Er… yeah!_

"I admit, I was a little curious."

Sherlock leant back in his chair, resting his dark head into its comfort, staring at the ceiling, but without any drama.

"I suppose you were. You must have… questions?"

 _Just a few._

"I understand if you want to keep your private life private Sherlock, I just - er, didn't realise you _had_ a private life."

"And yet, here we are." Sherlock raises his head, and John is gratified to catch a glint of something in his translucent eyes; a recollection of something that was far from unpleasant; a flash of something like -

"I'm not quite as unearthly as you imagine."

Something like desire.

John shifted in his chair, unprepared for such a reveal, but then it was gone, and Sherlock was himself, steepling fingers and speculating his friend.

"Do I know them?"

"Likely."

"Do I need to guess?"

Sherlock smiled. "But you do it so well, and without the slightest hint of deductive reasoning."

"You bloody well know don't you? About the list!"

"All I can say is, I was relieved Wiggins didn't make the cut."

"He was next." Although scarlet with mortification, John can't help but quirk a smile. "Then, perhaps, Moriarty…"

"Dead."

"Maybe not though - "

"Most certainly. Unlike Irene, who is still alive and well and living in Tunbridge Wells with a driving instructor."

"What?!"

It is Sherlock's turn to appear abashed.

"I did mean to mention that. I might add that selected parts of that sentence may not be entirely true."

 **~x~**

Back in _Patisserie Valerie_ , Costa Rican blends and Marron glaces are utterly forgotten as Mary's eyes are wide with full on hilarity.

"What did he say then?" She breathes chin cupped in her hands like a cherub from the roof of the Sistine Chapel. "Did he tell you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" smirks John, sitting back and enjoying such attention a little more than was decent.

"Oh, I _do_ know," replies she, "but I just wanted to know if you'd get there in the end."

 **~x~**

 **IX**

 **Confessing**

 **(By Sherlock Holmes)**

There's a scarlet thread of dishonesty running through the colourless skein of truth, and although I seek it out in others, I find it constricting and unnecessary in my own day-to-day existence.

Most of the time.

Unfortunately for the piety of of those upholders of truth and integrity, there is always the cunning lure of the convenience a lie (or withholding of truth) might offer. I should not wish to burden the world with my business when it suits me, and feel little guilt for the abstinence of truth-telling when an affair is unusually close to my own heart…

Particularly when it really _is_ my own heart.

 _Married to my work._

How convenient it was to lie low beneath the blanket acceptance those words offered me from John Watson. He barely knew me when I assured him of my disinterest in the pursuit of love. How easily I convinced him that I was automaton; brain without a heart, with my body a mere appendix for the hard drive that deciphered the puzzle and solved the crime. And, if he knew little enough of me, I knew of myself even less. The potential for emotion was always there, however - simmering beneath, restrained by an iron will and a startling lack of self- awareness. My head was a mainframe, but the heart within was a distempered and chaotic symphony of unresolved losses, yearnings and raw emotion, all straining for a conduit to the world, owned by an inexperienced conductor without any tempo.

Until I found my tempo.

But, what could be said? A heartfelt confession over porridge? A sudden declaration in the Detective's Lounge at Scotland Yard? A self-conscious announcement in The Times? No. When something is so very new and precious, it feels nothing but bemusing, inconvenient, precarious and sublime - all-encompassing and utterly selfish. Thus, I could not impart to my dearest friend, and as time past, opportune moments became more remote, until a confession would have become unwieldy and shameful with affectation.

Which is why I left him the jpeg.

I knew John Watson would not confront me outright since he had stumbled upon a person he could not have recognised in that one picture. It was taken at an utterly spontaneous and delightful moment and we both felt that it would speak to John in a way my words could not.

It seemed I completely underestimated the tenacity and thoroughness of his research and (rather scurrilous) speculation, but I could imagine no other way: he is the wordsmith, not I. Ultimately, the end justified the means and resultantly, I could spend time at my own home with the people I actually care for without complex subterfuge, secrecy and withholding of the truth - I find I have more than enough of that in my day to day line of work.

I love and I am loved, and there is truly nothing brighter in this world of ours.

SH.

 **~x~**


	6. Chapter 6

Molly Hooper is predictably sheepish as she slides in besides him, but John isn't really one for bearing a grudge (just as well, considering with whom he lives).

"Massively sorry John. I'm a total git."

"Yeah, I know, but look who you're hanging out with."

She nudges him in the ribs, but not hard (she is unexpectedly strong) and he smiles. Truthfully, their secrecy was small fry next to his shocking lack of seeing the obvious. _God_.

 _9\. Molly Hooper:_

 _PROS: Both perceptive and insightful (sometimes in differing ways)l; She is able to quieten a rabid consulting detective with a single glance; both top of their game, sharing commonality essential to his work and their interests; she quietly considerate and accommodating whilst upholding an unshakeable, steel-like core of strength in the face of adversity, he a drama queen upon occasion; she originally an awestruck pushover rapidly replaced by slightly quirky, morbidly humoured, fiercely loyal and utterly honest friend; he a selfish git made all the better for her input. She: Lifesaver, hand holder, battle-scarred soldier with a velvet embrace. Not so much look good together as look right together._

 _CONS: Sherlock Holmes - no one should be that lucky._

John looks across to the mantle at two other people he's rather fond of as Sherlock abruptly laughs out loud in the company of a woman he's only just met, and Mary Morstan's eyes twinkle again as she smiles, watching him.

"Bloody well knew they'd get on like a house on fire," he mutters to Molly. "You'd think they'd gone to primary school together."

"I always thought you had a _type_ ," she whispers, voice teetering on the cusp of a tease and affection, fingers toying at the antique cameo around her neck.

"Ah, it's true." He is an odd conglomeration of proud, bashful, overwhelmed and utterly happy. "Unbelievable though it is, and considering his general demeanour, everybody loves Sherlock."

They both watch him; listening, engaged, smiling, _irresistible_.

"Yes," murmurs Molly Hooper, tucking her legs under her as if the meagre comfort of their battered sofa was as familiar as her own. "Yes they do." She turns and looks, dark eyes blooming with a long suppressed joy.

"And isn't it lovely when he loves you right back?"

 **~x~**

Three hours later, the tea party had morphed seamlessly into a drinks and Pad Thai party and John was thrilled to see Mary was in no danger of leaving, even chatting to Mrs Hudson as Sherlock had become embroiled in a tiresome and seemingly endless diatribe-by-phone with his brother regarding some cryptic family obligation.

 _("- the vault? How enchanting you imagine our little strongbox akin to the federal gold reserve… no Mycroft, I have long since deleted the name of the Vernet family solicitors…")_

He yawns and rubs his eyes, deciding a clean up was necessary before he chanced the idea of Mary staying over. The phone call could take hours and he had an idea he'd need his strength later on.

"John." Molly beckons him over to the window, a battered Samsung covered with kittens sitting on pink clouds glows, casting blue light into the dimple of her cheeks. "Can I show you something?"

The picture is of her.

Clouds of copper burnished hair fan out corolla-like about her head as she lies across the bed. Her eyes are scrunched tight against the flash, as well as a feeble attempt to deter the photographer. Her chin is turned away, small nose wrinkled, but a smile as bright as the sun lights up the whole scene, her delicate, surgeon's hands clutching handfuls of white sheet across her body - all coral coloured freckles, hair and blush, caught up in a second of absolute happiness.

"As you can see," she says, almost shy (but not quite) "he got me back."

 **~x~**

 **EPILOGUE**

She's thinking so hard it hurts my brain and I find I must distract myself by intricate observations.

 _Molly Hooper._

For so long I did not see you (in so far as you were there, but as wallpaper - unappreciated and invisible), until a tiny, green spring-like shoot grew from the desert sands. Small it began, but still strong and tenacious; unyielding to the blistering heat of heartless words and careless attentions and eventually becoming … _more_. Then, one dazzling, dewy desert morning saw a miracle bloom forth. The bright blossoming of a flower so unexpected and beautiful it took my breath away as I, at last, saw who you really were.

The woman who helped me.

The woman who forgave me.

The woman who offered me everything she had.

The woman who slapped me and saved me, who selflessly accepted, and just _loved me._

 _Molly Hooper_ , I think as I lie across my bed - watching her contemplate when to rise and dress and leave before any fellow housemates return and find her here - Molly Hooper, it is you who knows me inside out, yet still gives me the time of day and I am at a loss to understand how I must ever be without you.

She breathes shallow, pale skin against paler sheets like cream poured over ivory. A faint blush remains beneath her skin, defiant and reluctant to leave, like her. I want to touch the softness beneath her jaw and feel its pulse; to pull her into me, enveloping, intertwining limbs and hands and … everything.

"Stay," I say (and startle her, as I knew I might).

"You know I can't. John's back soon and I can only bring you so many samples before Mrs Hudson starts to wonder."

She is looking over to the dresser and contemplating the taxi rank at the corner of Marylebone Avenue and I know I must stop her, desperation rising in my chest at the prospect of her absence, but ignorant, unknowing, inexperienced of what must be done.

She turns her head, (looking for her phone to check times of public transport - taxi too expensive and month's end still too far away) and my panic rises. The swell and curve of her body as the sheet shifts across it brings a prickle of sweat across my brow, and the soft swoop of pale apricot hair skims a shoulder blade in the soft lamplight that bathes my room.

"I don't want to go," she turns towards me, phone in hand, flashing out its hateful time. "Sherlock, I _never_ want to go." The sheet falls away and my heart almost stops as she moves towards me: _circe; siren; goddess_ , all soft planes and dark shadows in the half light, mouth curved up into a smile so inviting, I find I am smiling also.

"Don't." I say, low and quiet as I pull her down into the heat of me, enjoying the squirming, wriggling, laughing, kissing.

"Don't you find," breathes Molly Hooper, a mere hour later, "this to be a little other-wordly? Inconceivable almost?"

Oddly, I am without words at this point, but pull her all the closer until she murmurs:

"One of these days, I might just have to take a photograph to prove it's true."

And that is exactly what she did.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to all you lovelies who took the time to read and even comment upon this little tale. I loved writing it since I love these characters, and I love YOU!**

 **Until the next time.**

 **Emma x**


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